


Red Eye

by Prosodi



Category: Uncharted
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, Mile High Club, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:09:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prosodi/pseuds/Prosodi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flight to Syria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Eye

They're flying coach so it's not like it's particularly nice. At the start of a flight a baby is full on wailing ("Who takes their baby to Damascus on a bloody red eye?" Charlie asks). It's cold and the plane is older, feels ill-ventilated and stuffy, and the blankets the attendant hands out once they've reached cruising altitude is thin and made of some kind of weirdly smooth microfiber that's seen better days.

As if it wasn't obvious enough already, it's hardly a luxury trip. If she were smart, she'd sleep the whole way -- tomorrow's likely as not to be a busy day, time change be damned --, but instead Chloe leans her aisle seat back and tries to stretch her legs out under the seat in front of her. She's never been able to sleep on a plane. Anywhere else, give her a half comfortable chair and noise level below war zone and she's content to nap. But there's something stifling about a plane, about people, about flying that makes it a challenge.

Thirty minutes into the flight, Charlie's knee starts to jiggle. He fidgets his leg absently, gazing intently out the window with a terse expression on his face. When he doesn't stop after a few harmless bounces, she unfolds her arms and touches his knee. He quits. She settles again, pulls the in flight magazine from the seat back in front of her and flips idly through. At around fifteen pages, he starts up again.

"You don't have to hold it until we get there, you know," Chloe says.

The knee bounce stops. He looks at her, cocks his head: "What?"

"If you've got to take a leak, I'm not going to stop you from getting by."

"Oh." A beat. He puts his hand on his knee like he might hold it down, but instead his fingers tap a quick little beat there instead. "No, I'm all right." He looks out the window again.

Chloe closes the magazine. "Ah."

"Ah? What does 'ah' mean?"

The air is turned all the way up in their row despite the blankets on both of them. Their light is one of the few still on and Charlie Cutter is sitting pasted to the window seat with the kind of single minded determination meant for ignoring that they're in a small aluminum bullet traveling at hundreds of miles an hour, thousands of feet in the air. 'Ah,' Chloe thinks, is exactly the right word for it.

"It doesn't mean anything," she says, tucking the magazine back into the seat back pocket.

"Then why even say it." It's four in the morning, but that's no reason for him to be short tempered. She gives him a long-suffering look until he seems slightly abashed and apologizes absently.

Satisfied, she folds the armrest between them up and reaches to click off the reading light. Charlie balks, but doesn't say anything. Very pointedly doesn't say anything when she brings her hand to rest on his knee again and says, "Well see, that's not so bad." Instead he hooks his elbow against the very slim edge of the window and presses his thumb roughly against his temple. She can see the outline of it in the cabin's dim running lights: can just make out the anxious lines around his eyes coupled with the slightly amused twist of his mouth.

She walks her fingers up his leg over top the blanket across his lap, but it isn't until she actually moves her hand under the blanket that he says, "Really?"

"Don't tell me you weren't thinking it."

"To be perfectly frank, no."

"Well someone knows how to ruin a girl's fun."

He's about to say something - she can see it in his face. Can see the little quirk of his mouth getting ready to rattle off something which, she guesses, is an improvement to staring out the window at the blinking lights on plane's wing -, but then one of the flight attendants with her tastefully appointed pencil skirt and blouse, her pseudo stylish neck scarf, is suddenly there with a pad of paper in her hand. She has a thick, lush accent when she asks for their drink orders.

"I'm alright dear," Chloe says without moving her hand from high on Charlie's thigh.

Charlie asks for a beer like he thinks he might need it and once she goes through what they carry and he manages to parrot back the first label she said, she steps to the row behind them. Chloe slides her hand to the inside of his thigh, runs her fingertips against the inseam of his jeans. "Do I get a punch on my passport for this?" he asks.

"Frequent flyer miles maybe. If you're lucky, it'll earn you a free ride."

It's downright pedestrian innuendo, but it makes him laugh. And he breathes out heavy, half sigh of disbelief, which is really all the encouragement she needs. It's not silly. It's downright ridiculous is what it is. But Chloe has also decided she doesn't really care. She tips her head and lets her hair fall forward, wets her lips with the tip of her tongue as she quietly unbuckles his belt with one hand. He's still on the verge of just slightly inappropriate chuckling when she unbuttons his fly and coasts her fingers over the soft skin just above his waistband.

He starts to sober up when she twists her body in the very minuscule space of their seats, and pulls the edge of the blanket over her thigh to slightly obscure the curve of her arm. And he's downright serious when she sets her cheek against her shoulder and gives him a very pointed look with her lips slightly parted.

"Chloe--"

The sound of zipper seems like the loudest thing on the face of the planet, louder than the buzz of the pressured air and the grumble of other passengers around them. He says her name again for emphasis, then possibly "You're a menace," as she rides her palm absently down the front of his pants.

"Never heard that one before," she says, about nine shades of sarcasm and a wry smile.

"Right." The sound of his voice is a little taut. He clears his throat. "I'm sure you haven't."

"Don't tell me you're doubting me now."

"No, no. Never in my life."

It's the kind of easy back and forth that shouldn't really accomplish much. But they're in a small plane surrounded by people in only the half dark. The flight attendant is going to be back soon with Charlie's beer and it's all more than a little illicit. And maybe she's shameless enough to be talking a little too close to his ear, hot breath against the skin of his neck. The point is that when Chloe does edge down the waist of his underwear, he's not exactly arguing. Though he does go still and quiet for a moment when she touches him. Breathes heavy through his nose when he does at all and runs his palm over the top of his head in an absent, automatic gesture as her thumb--. After a moment he thinks to put the tray table down: manages to unfold it over his lap and the line of Chloe's arm across his thigh, though afterwards he can't quite seem to convince himself to let go. After a few easy strokes of her hand, she finds he's gripping the edge of the plastic like he might pull it from the back of the seat.

She takes her sweet time - partly because the angle of her wrist is awkward, but mostly because she's curious. Kind of wants press him a little. Keeping it slow and gentle means his teeth are on edge when the flight attendant starts rolling the beverage cart up the aisle. "For god's sake," he says.

"I probably should've gotten something," Chloe muses. "Suppose I can ask when she--"

Charlie makes a low noise in the back of his throat and she dismisses the idea. She isn't cruel. Though her hand is still resolutely down his pants when the attendant arrives with his drink. She hands him the aluminum can, plastic cup. He says thank you in the tautest way humanely possible. Mercifully, she and the cart trundle forward.

With her free hand, Chloe reaches over to crack the tab on the can. He bats her away, does it himself, and takes a long drink. She decides that's as good a sign as any, closes her fingers and starts in earnest to get him off.

For a while he's sharp: all angles and staring hard at the seat in front of him. A muscle in his jaw working and his fingers are tight on the aluminum can. But then she turns her wrist and he goes a little slack. He says, very much under his breath, "Shit this isn't helpful," as he gently drops the angle of his hip. Settles into the press of her fingers. In the dim light of the cabin she can make out the soft shape of his mouth, the faint scar on his chin.

When he gets close - and it takes longer than she really expected it to; her wrist aches and the microfiber blanket is making everything hotter than it should be -, he moves his hand to her leg and slides his fingers against the crook of her knee. His hand is big, easily spanning the shape of her leg. The touch has all the potential to be a little rough, for him to squeeze a little tight as she's being more than a little rough with him all things considered: thumb sliding across the faintly slick head of his cock and fingers terribly insistent.

Instead his hand is very, very light. He doesn't stroke her thigh but once and after he just sets his hand there like it's something to ground himself by. Lets his head fall back. There's something wholly satisfactory in it: the angle of his chin in the dark, the low drawn out sound of his purposefully steady breathing and the heat of his hand on her leg. It's--

He's quiet when he comes except for a hitch in his breath that makes his chest heave from the effort of not making any noise. Chloe makes a point to wringing it out of him. After, she cleans her hand on his underwear and on the edge of the blanket (and tries not to think about how many times someone else has probably done the same thing). She lets Charlie do up his jeans which he does - eventually, after the desperate edge to his breathing has settled.

For nearly a minute they sit in absolute silence. The hum of the air cycling through the cabin and the shutter of the plane as it catches on some updraft between them. Charlie takes a slow sip of his beer and then hands her the can. She takes it and the unused plastic cup, then pours herself half of what's left.

"Cheers."

"Remind me to put a change of pants in my carry on for the flight back."

She takes a sip. The beer is unsurprisingly stale. "Ah."


End file.
